Rituals, drinks, and bartenders who know how to keep their mouths shut
by RubberDuckyYou'reTheOne
Summary: Rituals were dangerous in her line of work; if you had them, someone could learn them. No one had found out about this one yet, not even Clint, and it had been going on for so many years now (longer that anyone else knew) that she didn't see the harm. After all, is was only drinks with her fellow probably-immortal.


Natasha walked down the streets of New York in what would appear to be aimlessness. Her head wasn't down against the wind like everyone else's; her eyes darted everywhere, watching everything. Usually, she was subtler than that, but it had been a long day, and she was relaxed enough that she could be obvious. This wasn't a mission, and it wasn't aimless wandering. This was tradition.

Habits are a death sentence in her line of work, because if you have them, someone else can learn them. Yet every year, without fail, finds her doing the exact same thing. And no one had caught on yet, not even Clint. Once a year wasn't something of notice, especially when she disappeared into the night on more than this occasion.

As she stepped into the light streaming out of the bar's windows, Natasha paused for a moment. It wasn't hesitation, per say. Just absorbing the moment. Remembering everything that had brought her here.

A time, long ago (much longer than anyone really knew) there was a young woman who had needed to be saved, and hadn't known it, and there had been two men who had come to save her. The men thought nothing of it, and neither did the woman, and everyone almost forgot about it. Then she had needed saving again, but they hadn't been there, and the woman had fallen into a web of lies that would take decades to get out of.

After she had escaped, this time under her own power, the young woman sought out the world that she had lost, and finds a piece of it (the only piece of it left) in the back of a bar and the bottom of a drink. One of the men had been sitting there, and she had slid in next to him, not saying a word. She hadn't asked what had happened to the other man, and he hadn't offered up any information about it. They drank in silence, and she finally remarked on the fact that he hadn't changed at all in the last few decades.

There was clearly a question in that statement, but he ignored it and said, "You're not lookin' so bad yourself, kid."

Natasha had left the bar for the cold Russian winter outside, and she didn't see the man again until a few years later, in Canada. The man recognized her still, and they sat together and drank some more, taking a small amount of comfort (not that they would admit it) in the fact that in a world that had changed so much since they had been born, they were still the same, and still kicking. That was the best they could ask for.

The next time they saw each other, it was even longer, and the man hadn't recognized her. He was different; angrier, and even closer to the animal side they both had hidden under wraps. They had gotten into a fight, and demolished the bar, and as they both lay there, bruised and broken by each other, something had flashed in his eyes for a moment, but then it was beaten back by a wave of pain, and he had left.

Six years before New York (and three years after Budapest) she had been in a bar, in New York. It was old, and run down, and probably a month away form closing from lack of profits, but he was there, and he remembered her again. They sat, and they drank, and this time was different because right before they left, he had asked, "Same time next year?"

She shrugged. "Might as well." Then he left, and when the bartender went through his tips at closing time, there was enough money in there to keep him open for another three years. The bartender never said anything, but he had known who had left the money, and the next year they met, they both drank for free.

So here she was, standing in a bar, sliding in next to one of the men who had saved her so long ago, and who had remained constant in her life longer than anyone else. They didn't say anything, and they drank for free, longer than they probably should have.

He took in a deep breath and sighed, looking slightly uncomfortable for the first time since she had ever seen him. "I need a favor." He said.

"Anything," Natasha promised instinctively. It made her pause for a moment, but she didn't take it back, because she could trust him not to ask too much, and they were the closest things to friends that people like them could be.

"There's a man. His name is Charles Xavier, and he wants to talk to Fury about something, but I can't ask him directly, and Fury won't listen to Chuck right off the bat."

He didn't elaborate, and she didn't need him to; neither one of them liked needless conversation. Despite her flirtatious mask(s), she was more of the strong and silent type.

"Who is he?"

"He's the man who helped me remember."

Natasha nodded and took another sip of her beer, tipping the bottle back. "Alright. Your place, my place, or his place?"

Logan hesitated. "My place, as long as you don't bring an army with you. Wouldn't wanna scare the kids."

Natasha raised an eyebrow at that. He grumbled under his breath. "I can't believe I agreed to it either. Kids are as annoying as hell."

He slid her a card with an address on it, then slid off of his stool and walked out into the cold, windy city, nodding to the bartender as he stepped through the door.

Natasha waited until the bartender's back was turned before slipping money into the tip jar. She did it every year, which defeated the purpose of drinking for free, she supposed, but the man had offered, and that was what counted in her book. Besides, even after her face got plastered over every TV screen in the country, the bartender had kept his mouth shut, and their meetings were safe.

She flipped the card over, and saw an address not far outside of New York, as well as two phone numbers; one printed like the rest of the card, and one messily scrawled in black ink across the bottom of the card.

At the top, printed in bold letters, were the words "Xavier's School For Gifted Youngsters."

Natasha slipped the card into her coat pocket and walked out of the bar, unable to shake the feeling that their little ritual, such a source of familiarity in a world that scorned sentiment, was about to be changed drastically. But maybe it was for the best. Even immortals cannot slow the winds of change.


End file.
